


No More Returning

by biichan



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Historical, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-11
Updated: 2010-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biichan/pseuds/biichan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just why was a McCrimmon fighting for Charles Stuart, anyway? A story about Jamie and his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Returning

**Author's Note:**

> This story was original written for Big Finish's open submissions for the Short Trips audios. Since it wasn't one of the stories chosen, I've decided to post it online.

There were days Jamie regretted listening to the Doctor. The man was daft. Any sane man upon hearing that there was a monster living in the cave over yonder would have stayed safely away. Not the Doctor. Oh no, _his_ response was to go looking for the monster. And, of course, to take Jamie with him.

Which was why Jamie was currently dodging the claws of a weird snarling beastie—with the wings of a bat, the face of a dog, and a tongue as black as midnight—shrieking at him that he'd killed his father.

The worst part of all was that the monster was very nearly right.

* * *

The McCrimmons had been pipers to the McLeods since time out of mind. Of all the piping families it was they who were acknowledged as first and best and Jamie's father, Donald Ban McCrimmon, was widely hailed as the veritable King of Pipers.

Jamie was the second of three sons. His mother had been a Lawrie of Clan MacLaren; her brother, Robert Lawrie, was Laird Colin's stable master. When Jamie was five, his older brother had come down with the measles and so he'd been sent to live with his uncle until Midsummer. He'd been lonely at first, but soon found ample playmates: the Laird had a daughter Jamie's age and a son not many years older.

In fact, the visit to Jamie's Uncle Lawrie had worked out so well for all concerned that it was repeated the next year and every year after that, despite Jamie's older brother's health being no more poor than it normally was. In time Jamie's friends came to teasingly call him McCrimmon of MacLaren, a name Jamie took pride in.

It was in the wake of such a visit, in his sixteenth year, that Jamie had come to his father with pride at what at the time he had thought was the greatest news of his life. "Colin MacLaren has asked me to be his piper," his said, his voice wild with glee. "We ride to Glenfinnan to join Bonnie Prince Charlie before the week is out."

His father said nothing. Jamie frowned. "What's wrong? I thought you'd be glad for me."

"Jamie," his father said very quietly, "McLeod has declared for the Government."

Jamie turned pale. "You're lying," he whispered.

His father shook his head. "Charles Stuart is a green and untested boy. Even the French King doesn't believe he'll win. If he did, he'd have sent more troops with him."

Jamie stared at his father. "How can you say something so treasonous?"

"My son," said Donald Ban McCrimmon, "I am not the one who is talking of treason."

Jamie turned away. "I am not your son. Not any longer."

He never went back to his father's house.

* * *

He'd lost the Doctor at some point. He didn't know when. He was too busy running from the monster, the one that the men in the village had called a "Furry." Or at least that was what Jamie had thought they'd called it. He might be wrong. It didn't seem to have much fur at all.

Zoe had had the right of it. The Doctor had asked her to come too, but she was much too busy conversing with that the village's natural philosopher on whatever it was that Zoe always talked about. She _liked_ the villagers. Jamie didn't, much. He'd heard them call him and the Doctor a pair of mollies when they thought he hadn't been listening. And the village men were always _staring_ at him.

Right now he'd take any number of staring villagers over this Furry beastie. Especially since it had him backed into a corner.

He made to stab at it with his knife. The Furry batted it away with a sweep of its claws.

This was it, then. He'd be meeting the Phantom Piper not on the battlefield, but in a cave in Greece two thousand years before he'd even been born. Was it a better death than by a musket ball? Jamie didn't know.

He didn't get to find out. Far-off in the darkness, the Doctor's voice rang out in triumph and then the monster dissolved in a burst of golden light.

Jamie's knees buckled and he slid, dazed, to the ground.

* * *

Jamie had been eating breakfast when new came of Moy. He'd laughed at first, as the courier told his tale of how Loudon and his fifteen-thousand had tried to capture Prince Charlie, only to be frightened back to Inverness by a handful of Mackintoshes beating their swords against rocks and shouting Highland battle cries. It was almost better, he thought, to have won the day through trickery and not the shedding of blood and he said as much.

"Oh, but blood _was_ shed," said the courier. "Not much of it, but McLeod's piper was killed by his side. Can't think of his name. The one that caused all that fuss at Christmas. Well, you're a piper too. I'm sure you know of him."

Laird Colin said something then, but Jamie didn't hear. He was too busy puking up the meager contents of his stomach.

He never wanted to touch his pipes again.

* * *

"Jamie? Jamie, are you quite all right?" It was the Doctor's voice, sounding as he was right beside Jamie, and there was a hand pressed against Jamie's forehead.

Jamie opened his eyes. "Aye, Doctor," he said tiredly. "I'm fine. Is that Furry beastie gone for good?"

The Doctor nodded. "I shouldn't think it would be coming back. Though, Jamie, it wasn't alive, you know. The Fury was a psychic projection of an abandoned space ship hidden deep inside the mountain—a sort of alien burglar alarm, if you will, that plucks things from your mind and twists them. I managed to short out the system while you were distracting it."

"Ah, well then," said Jamie, who hadn't understood nearly half of what the Doctor had said, but knew better to ask questions whose answers would only leave him more confused. "That's good."

The Doctor nodded again. "Do you think you can stand?"

"Probably," said Jamie and with a little effort—and a bit of help from the Doctor—he was back on his feet.

"Ah," said the Doctor. "That's better."

"I didn't kill him," Jamie said after a long moment. "I didn't. But sometimes... sometimes it feels like I did."

The Doctor put a hand on his shoulder."I know, Jamie," he said quietly. "I know."

* * *

The last time Jamie saw his father it was Christmas Day. His father had been captured by the Jacobites two days before. He was humming under his breath when Jamie found him, looking up at the thin, high window of his cell.

"We've all agreed," Jamie said, after hesitating for a moment. "None of us will be piping until you're freed."

His father turned from the window to look at him. "Thank you, Jamie," he said softly.

Jamie shook his head. He didn't need thanking. They'd have decided the same without him. All he'd done was ask to be the one to deliver the news.

"I didn't mean it," he said, finally. His throat felt tight; there was something caught in it. "When I said I wasn't your son. I didn't mean it."

"Oh, Jamie," said Donald Ban McCrimmon, the man they called the King of Pipers. "I never thought you did."

_No more, no more, no more returning;   
In peace nor in war is he returning;   
Till dawns the great day of doom and burning,   
MacCrimmon is home no more returning._

**Author's Note:**

> **Historical Notes:**
> 
> Although Jamie McCrimmon (and most of the family I invented for him in this story) are fictional characters, Donald Ban McCrimmon (or rather MacCrimmon) truly did exist and was, in fact, McLeod's piper during the Jacobite rebellion. His capture by the Jacobites in December of 1744 and death the following February at the Route of Moy are also matters of historical record. The Jacobite pipers really did refuse to play while he was captured. It's said that during his imprisonment, MacCrimmon composed the tune which is now known as "MacCrimmon's Lament." After his death, words were added to it by his sister and I have used some of them as the epigraph for this story. The story itself was originally inspired by an essay from the _About Time_ books called "Why Was A McCrimmon Fighting For The Pretender?" Eventually I came up with my own explanation.


End file.
